Velma 32, Abandoned but not Alone
by Lightfootfox
Summary: Hello this is my first ever foray into fanfiction writing. I appreciate all valued feedback. I based this story on this deviant artist's beautifully rendered artwork. Seen here: Anyways above all I hope you like it. Beware while this isn't doom and gloom, it's not sunshine and lollipops either


Velma, 32

As I pulled the last slice of birthday cake from my fridge I lamented the gourmet end to my thirty-second birthday, not to make an ill received pun. In actuality my birthday had been particularly eventful this year. While the usual singing birthday card from my mother had arrived a day early signed with love and well wishes, it was the arrival of some old spooks that really surprised me. Somehow Shaggy managed to get Fred to buy them each a plane ticket from NYC to good old Lawrence where I had set up a mystery book shop, "Jinkies! Jeepers! Mysteries For Your Peepers!." It turned a decent profit so long as the KU students were in town and the weather was chilly. More on my birthday though, Fred and Shaggy flew all the way from New York to surprise me for my birthday to throw me a little party. Daphne even showed up for a little while. She was on her motivational speaking tour and as fate would have it she was speaking in Kansas City the next day. So we sat around in the loft above my shop reminiscing and dancing to the good old times. I swear Shaggy hadn't changed a bit personality wise, but he looked more mature with a clean shave and a trim. Running a food truck bakery would be tough if you had to worry about dropping a hair into the batter.

That's how I got the cake. It was really something else; a twelve layer red velvet cake, super rich and creamy. In cute fondant letters he had molded a cute "Happy Birthday Velma" scene with some of my favorite literary characters. I had savored it for the duration of a week and mysteriously even with four people, particularly the baker, having had generous slices the first night it had lasted even this long.

So I grabbed a fork and my copy of _The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_ and celebrated the end of my thirty-second birthday. As I savored the flavor I began to taste nostalgia. Where had the time gone? My birthday celebration was longer than thirty seconds, but I'm not sure I felt that way about my twenties. How I missed those days running around solving mysteries. This book was literary brilliance, but there's nothing quite like running around doing it yourself. I always knew those days couldn't last forever, but I honestly kind of hoped they would. It was pleasant, as peculiar as that may sound.

Though that being said my present life wasn't anything to scoff at. I owned my bookshop and furnished my apartment myself. My mother had been sweet to give me the down payment, but even that would be payed back within this year. My future was all laid out. Even if the store burned down with the insurance I'd be set to have perfect credit until it didn't matter so much anymore. No more wondering if the gas tank was going to get us down another 50 miles down the highway. That just wasn't the time anymore…

I made my daily scroll through my email looking for when my next shipment of books was set to come in. Surprisingly an Okcupid email weaseled its way in. I had forgotten I'd made that site. The last time Madelyn came to visit she insisted on making me a profile. I needed to "get out there." I obliged her if only because I didn't think I'd ever hear of it again, but I had and quite often from a few men. This was one of the only ways I got urged to go out on dates. Going out wasn't really permitted with my job as a bookshop owner. I could hire any college student, but it was unrewarding work finding someone with the similar knowledge of the mystery canon like I. I dealt with a lot of specialty orders and had developed jargon that could rival a doctor's.

His name was Telltalejayhawk, real name Connor, and he seemed decent at making literary jokes and jabs back and forth with me. He mentioned an evening book reading tonight I might be interested in going with him. While I wasn't one for poetry, I had enjoyed some of Sherman Alexie's works. I agreed. I spent a few minutes looking over his pictures. He was blonde with a strong roman nose and seemed to wear a lot of flannel. Somehow it didn't make him look like a lumberjack. He was aesthetically pleasing.

I got up and dropped my plate in the sink. I'd wash it later, probably. I went up stairs to get dressed. Opening my wardrobe I ruffled through the numerous sweaters. A familiar orange turtleneck brushed against my forearm. I held it up to myself and posed in front of the mirror to the side. I had to admit I was sizably heavier than in my mystery hey day. It was probably all that unintentional cardio I no longer got that kept me slim back then. I knew I had been letting myself go for a while, so these consequences weren't unexpected. Still I'm not that huge, no more than 185 lbs. My figure is mostly the same, just rounder. For a time I had tried to lose weight, but when the yearly doctor check up said I was still a healthy as horse I quickly set into making my book store my primary concern. I have maintained the same bob haircut on and off. It just suits my facial features and I'm not sure I'd be willing to commit with the upkeep of longer hair though I do have the time. In my nostalgia I picked out low cut orange cocktail dress paired with a reddish silk scarf. It was dressy, but still kept up my most important quality when deciding on clothing, comfortably.

When the sun began to set I made my way to the restaurant we agreed to meet at, my choosing. I passed my reflection in a store window while walking along. Again I surveyed my appearance. I did look decidedly nice. The Daphne of back then would still probably give me fashion advice, but she always did that before she became a black belt.

I sat inside greeted by Jeremy, the usually host. He gave me my favorite booth and brought me a large glass of wine. Looking at the time I wondered when Connor would make his appearance, if at all. I'll be honest this isn't the first time I've been stood up. Since I don't get to meet these men, I can't say for sure what it is that prevents them from showing up, kidnapped, my weight, or just internet flakiness, but it happens often enough that I'm prepared for it. Still I get dressed up because sometimes it does feel nice to wash the dust off my face and immerse myself with a different environment. As the streetlights begin their haunt and the sun lays to bed, I pull out the book I packed in my purse for just this possible situation. He's more than likely not coming. And honestly it doesn't bother me.

What you may not see is that I'm comfortable here, not just in this booth, but everyday. Everyday is pleasant. I do something I'm good at and I love every day. I can't say there's much mystery in my life nowadays, but is anything ever going to compare to one's youth especially an internationally famous one? Still I go out on these attempted dates, sometimes I have a laugh particularly when it _is_ a date, but I haven't found anything worth holding onto yet. That last word there makes me question something. Why do I feel an obligation to do this? I will always have myself and that's all I need. What is the difference between a want and a need?


End file.
